


mindspeak

by azureforest



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Cynicism, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azureforest/pseuds/azureforest
Summary: glass shrieks under his fingertips, rattles like a beast struggling to free itself of its chains, of prisons that never really existed. thoughts always run rampant in the MIND, even in an illusionist's, and must always, always be carefully restrained.here, the boy thinks that perhaps he is better off staying without a HEART- for fear is abundant in a waking nightmare of his own creation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> had to get this out of my system for a while. good thing zexions a good outlet for my inner cynic. uh. have fun i guess?
> 
> (minor warning for disturbing imagery/body horror)

The mirrors speak and whisper to him as he strides along, the surfaces reflecting, distorting, rippling, always hoping to be the real thing, but never anywhere near- Reflections are copies of copies from yet another, far more intelligible world, he remembers, Kant’s words scrabbling down a wall and into the open, and the eyes and human brain are once again prone to deception- Not only are those mirror images twice removed from a supposed, theoretical original, but they will also never have any chance of being perceived the way they are meant to be- A pathetic existence, perhaps, one wishing, always wishing, but never complete, because of eyes that cannot see, grey matter that cannot process.

Humans are blind, foolish, Somebodies are foolish, Nobodies are foolish, all are foolish, foolish, ever gullible, ever-trusting of their senses and their flawed logic.

Though, he supposes one would go mad if one could not even trust themselves- A self whose thoughts leak through their eyes, clouding sight, changing vision, morphed and shaped by false beliefs, streams that are not always controlled, consciousnesses that run rampant, sloshing about in skulls, up against pale bone, through cartilage too thin to hold it all back. Trust in oneself makes no sense, no, but we have no choice- Even though we can never know the true extent of our own bodies, and even if the fabric of our physical being is grasped, each gene and atom catalogued and discovered, we will never, ever, ever _truly_ know of the mind, the heart, not the one that beats, but the HEART, the true(?) core of being.

He entertains the thought often- HEART, and MIND, separate entities, of which one he does not have possession of- It has been lost, long ago, yet somehow, he still exists. He must check the thesis of hearts as cores sometime soon, see if this situation in itself is an antithesis, but there are years of time yet remaining, and with how hard the two are to grasp- Well, one must see if a thesis upon yet another is even supportable in the first place.

He is not yet sure whether he misses it, his HEART, but at least it is one less thing about himself he does not understand.

Though, he would like to.

God, would he _love_ to.

Though, love is probably the wrong word to use- Nobodies cannot feel _love_.

But the mind is already difficult enough to understand on its own, in all of its nooks and crannies, every idea that slinks past, each impulse that pounds against the front of your head, each shadow that occupies corners no one dares to look in.

Corners his illusionist’s fingers can reach. Hands grasp and claw for memories, dreams, flights of fancy he can rip, pull and pluck out to use to craft elaborate nightmares, waking horrors and night terrors in broad daylight- But that brings him no closer to an understanding, because there is simply too much, too much, _too much_ , because if waking thoughts are a storm, then the whole thing must be a world-ending disaster when combined with all those that slumber.

Because thoughts, his thoughts, they can _destroy_ , and whatever fate thought it was a brilliant idea to put such power, such _magic_ in a little boy prodigy without a heart, no capacity for sympathy, empathy, joy, anger, _fear_ -

Well, they were an idiot, simple as that.

But he isn’t complaining, no, not when he can make things of nightmares crawl out of open wounds that had never been there, not when he can leave phantom impressions of demonic touches on clammy skin, not when he can make a human rot and melt away before their very own eyes as they peer into a mirror, skin flaking off and lips peeling away to reveal clenched, cracking teeth and bleeding gums. But he is no showoff- Why would he do these things without an aim? Small things, subtle things are already fruitful, reactions to such things can also be observed- A glimpse of a face one once knew, perhaps, or sounds of something never quite there. He is no showoff, but when one gives a scientist possibilities, they are bound to look for results, just as if one gives a child something to explore, they will become curious. And with him being both, a child of science with illusions crackling at his fingertips, lying dormant in his mind and dancing behind his eyelids, the temptation is _strong_.

That is, if there ever _was_ any, for he is quite sure temptation is a matter of HEART, and he only has its counterpart- MIND. A MIND that can conjure and create falsehoods of its own or others’ fantasies.

His power is illusion. Illusion, the truest, most maddening form of deception, a deception of others that could just as well be a deception of self, a careful twisting of senses one may or may not have always trusted to see, feel, hear, smell and taste what in reality is not there, has never been there.

Illusion is something that makes entire worlds into lies.

And, well. He’s always been good at lying, good at making seemingly carelessly plucked but calculated words and twisted truths fall from his throat and lips when he needs them, his silver tongue and sharp intellect saving him when need be. He supposes that ultimately, the role of an illusionist suits him quite well.

Though, as he walks along, as the mirrors scream at him, legs skitter across marble floors, as a face surfaces out of the smooth ceramic of a vase and a tendril of dark curls around his throat, he remembers that no one can- no one should- no one would fear the illusionist more than himself, as far as he is capable of fear, be it hollow or a mere echo, a sad mockery of what was once raw emotion, adrenaline through veins like a mad rush.

After all, thoughts are dangerous if left to grow and fester, as are illusions, as is the MIND.

 

And if the MIND is already such a threat,

 

                                                        Then, what is of the HEART?

**Author's Note:**

> as always, feedback of any kind is greatly appreciated!


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